


Kla'Mut

by scifihobbit



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: All that Klingon stuff, Gen, Honor, Rites of Passage, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifihobbit/pseuds/scifihobbit
Summary: Worf has a Klingon ritual he must perform, but given all of the DS9 gang's previous experiences with Klingon rituals he's having trouble finding someone to join him in it. Odo acquiesces, and the two find more ways that they are kindred spirits.
Relationships: Odo & Worf (Star Trek)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Kla'Mut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perfectlyoptimisticanchor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyoptimisticanchor/gifts).



> For PerfectlyOptimisticAnchor, who wanted Odo and Worf being buddies.

“I can’t, Worf,” O’Brien was stammering, somehow managing to inch backwards without moving his feet. “Keiko’s got a, a thing. I’m sure there’s someone else who could join you in the Kla’mut ritual. I’m honored you asked. Really. But if I’m not back to put Molly to bed there’ll be hell to pay.” O’Brien’s words were coming in a rush.

Worf had heard people make excuses not to engage in Klingon ceremonies with him many times, and he was familiar with the panicked tone that entered their voice as they did so. He didn’t begrudge Miles his hesitation. The man had suffered through many things he did not understand on Worf’s part before. He did begrudge him the lie a bit. Chief O’Brien should have more honor than that.

“Why don’t you ask,” O’Brien was still talking, “well,” O’Brien swiveled his head around Ops, looking desperately for someone to suggest, “Odo! Yeah, I bet Odo would be interested in undertaking Kla’mut with you.” That was not actually a lie.

Was Kira snickering into her hand?

“I appreciate your input, Chief,” Worf said. “Give my best to Keiko. I would enjoy hearing her findings on spider trees upon her return.”

Kla’mut was supposed to be performed with someone a warrior had many years of experience serving with. O’Brien came closest to fitting the bill in that regard, but Kla’mut had to be undertaken not just willingly, but enthusiastically if it was going to be completed properly.

“I will ask the Constable later if he will join me in the ritual.” Worf nodded his head once and turned back to the panel in front of him, running another scan on the ships that had docked at the station in the last three days.

“That’s great, Worf,” Miles said. “I’m sure he’ll be honored.” And then he scurried off back to the engineering pit to stare very intently at some wires behind a piece of paneling.

\---

Worf stood outside the door to the security office. He could see the Constable on the other side, studying a padd that lay on top of his desk. Worf had been standing exactly where he was for longer than he was willing to admit. He drew in a deep breath—his fourth since stopping outside the door—and stepped forward. The door slid open and Odo looked up.

“Is there something I can help you with, Commander?”

“I have a request of a personal nature.”

Odo looked at Worf blank-faced. Even more blank-faced than his half-formed countenance usually made him seem.

Worf shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and back again.

“Yes?” Odo said eventually.

“There is a Klingon right-of-passage, a marking of time. It is called Kla’mut.” Worf paused there, hoping that Odo would be familiar with the ritual and he wouldn’t have to continue. This was incredibly unlikely, but Odo was a detective. Worf could hope.

“Yes?” Odo said again.

“I must revisit the site of my first battle and reenact it with a comrade-in-arms so that I may see how my skills as a warrior have changed over the course of time.”

“Where was your first battle?”

This was the question Worf had been dreading. “Khitomer. The colony where I spent my youth. The battle was a schoolyard brawl between myself and a boy four years older. He wanted to prove that he could ‘beat up’ a Klingon. He was incorrect.”

“And that counts as a battle?”

“That is the reason for Kla’mut. To revisit such an early time that a warrior will be able to recognize all of his growth. Usually, Kla’mut is performed in the arena where a Klingon first comes of age, but I was no longer on Qo’noS at that age and there were no arenas on Khitomer for me to battle in. It did not matter, though. I fought this boy even before I was of an age to enter the arena.”

Odo’s face had remained placid through this entire explanation. “Khitomer’s not close,” he said simply. This made Worf’s shoulders droop, but he squared them again immediately. The Constable was making excuses, just as the Chief had. He would not let such small matters deflate his spirit.

“I believe the holosuite would suffice. I will recreate the school’s play yard there.”

“And you want me to… Watch? While you ‘battle’ a holographic child.” The air quotes in Odo’s voice were clear and Worf bristled again. Sometimes explaining Klingon rituals and customs was so exhausting that he thought of tossing them all aside. However, maintaining his culture in the face of bafflement and misunderstanding was just one more battle he must face, and he would not be defeated.

“No,” Worf said. “You would be the Ochter. You would take the place of the boy and fight me.”

“I see.”

They remained in silence a moment. Worf stared firmly ahead, not looking at Odo but keeping his gaze steady over Odo’s head and on the back wall. Odo continued to look at Worf with curiosity and bemusement. Sometimes the changeling reminded Worf of Data in his fascination with solid behavior, though Data never displayed the sort of distrust of them that Odo did.

“Alright,” Odo said finally. “When is this Kla’mut supposed to occur?”

\---

Worf stood inside the holosuite, waiting for Odo. The facsimile of the schoolyard was perfectly accurate, though all the equipment appeared twice as small, if not smaller, than Worf remembered it. He didn’t pace but faced the door with shoulders squared and chin raised.

He heard the Constable clear his throat on the other side of the door. There were no chimes in the holosuite like there were in personal quarters. Either the door was locked or it wasn’t. Odo seemed uncomfortable with assuming the latter though. Perhaps he thought Worf was involved in some pre-ritual ritual. Klingon beliefs could be recursive, but rarely that to that degree. Worf didn’t begrudge Odo his reticence in this instance though. Their mutual respect for uninterrupted private space was one of the things that made Worf appreciate the constable.

“You may enter, Constable,” Worf said.

The door slid open and Odo stepped through. He went stiff immediately upon entering and stared at Worf, his eyes widened slightly—which for Odo was as good as his jaw dropping.

Worf glanced down at himself. He was wearing bright green shorts that ended three inches above his knees. The best word to describe his shoes was “clogs,” though they looked like the had just as much in common with slippers. They were the exact same shade of bright green. His shirt was an orange reminiscent of the color of bile and stuffed with synthetic down so that it ballooned around his shoulders. He looked ridiculous. He knew it. And in comparison to the looks he had gotten as he walked to the holosuite Odo’s response was quite reserved.

“The rite of Kla’mut is also to be performed in the garb the first battle was fought in.”

Odo still said nothing.

“During a traditional Klingon coming-of-age the youth is in vestments made from the skin of an Altron bear, tied together with Targ hide, but that is not what I was wearing.”

Odo nodded brusquely. “I see,” he said, and he almost sounded as if he really did. “Do I need to change?”

When Worf shook his head Odo moved his gaze to glance around at the scenery the holosuite had generated. To look at anything else. “This is where you grew up?” he asked.

“A part of it. Yes.”

Odo took in the blue sky, the green vegetation around the edges of the schoolyard. There was even the simulation of a warm breeze. It smelled of fresh dirt and growing things. “It reminds me of Bajor.”

“I have found that many humanoids prefer worlds like this,” Worf said. “This planet was uninhabited until the Federation began a colony on it.”

“They do all tend to find comfort in the same things, don’t they?” Odo said. Using ‘they’ as if Worf wasn’t a humanoid himself.

Worf didn’t take this as a slight, but rather a sign of companionship and respect. He and Odo understood that blue skies and green things didn’t necessarily make a place desirable.

“My first battle occurred unarmed,” Worf said, “which is yet another way it is not like the usual Klingon coming-of-age. So I cannot offer you a weapon. You may assail me however you wish. I am certain you will be an honorable and worthy opponent.”

Odo moved his weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m just supposed to attack you? Are there any words I need to say or something like that?”

“No.” Worf dropped into a crouch.

“Well. Alright.” He swung at Worf with his fist, and shifted it halfway there into the head of a sledgehammer.

Worf deflected the blow and lunged underneath it, aiming his shoulder into Odo’s solar plexus. He made no comment on Odo’s shape-shifting. Odo grunted in surprise—even though there was no air in him to be pushed out—and staggered backward. He grabbed for the back of Worf’s head as he went, and pulled the Klingon down on top of him. They rolled across the pavement of the playground, grappling with each other. The gravel bit into Worf’s cheek and the sharp sensation dragged him back to that time, years ago, when this fight had first occurred.

Shifting into some sort of snake Odo slid out of Worf’s grasp. Worf jumped to his feet and spun around, coming to face Odo just as the constable swung another sledgehammer fist at him.

The battle was even more evenly matched than Worf had anticipated. He had never seen the constable engaged in one-on-one combat, or witnessed him changing shape as quickly and cleverly as he was. Breathing hard Worf sucked the peaceful breeze into his lungs and smelled the smells of his childhood victory. He kicked out at Odo’s legs to knock him off balance and leapt forward.

Worf lost himself in the rhythms of the Kla’mut ritual. He felt the sensations that he’d felt on that day, in that moment when he’d faced his first opponent, and but he battled in all the ways he’d learned to since that time. Year after year of glorious battles had followed and each layer now added to his physicality as he revisited his first struggle.

After many strikes and counterstrikes, jabs and dodges, punches and parries, Odo was behind Worf with his arms wrapped around Worf’s neck. Worf growled deep in his throat and thrust his shoulders forward and down to fling Odo over his back and onto the pavement below. The growl grew into a shout and Worf yelled till the holosuite reverberated with his voice.

Odo lay on his back, looking up at the commander. It would be easy enough for him to get up and continue their fight—his supple body was uninjured—but somehow he knew the battle was over, and that the ritual was complete.

Abruptly, Worf stopped his howl and reached down to offer Odo a hand up. The constable took it.

“Computer, end program,” Worf said.

As they exited the holosuite there was a shout from the lower level of Quark’s. “There you are!” It was Chief O’Brien. He grinned at them. “I’ve seen enough Klingon ceremonies now to know that the end of one calls for bloodwine!” He waved them down enthusiastically. Julian, Kira, Jadzia, and Sisko were all standing nearby, drinks in hand.

Odo and Worf looked at each other, nonplussed.

“It seems our crewmates want to engage in some traditional human bonding behavior.”

Worf nodded. “It appears so. I suppose we should humor them.” He started to make his way down the spiral staircase.

Odo harrumphed once and followed.

As Worf reached the bottom of the stairs O’Brien slapped him on the shoulder, handed him a glass of blood wine, and said, “Happy Kla’Mut! How many times do Klings come of age, anyway?”

Worf met Odo’s eyes over O’Brien’s head. Odo rolled his eyes ever so slightly. Worf rolled his own back.


End file.
